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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23163298">and they were roommates (omg they were roommates!)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyesontheskyline/pseuds/eyesontheskyline'>eyesontheskyline</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Crazy Ex-Girlfriend (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Eventual Smut, F/M, Friends to Lovers, George's Unhelpful Help, Law School, Rebecca Bunch x Musical Theatre, Roommates, Strangers to Lovers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 12:34:41</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,487</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23163298</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyesontheskyline/pseuds/eyesontheskyline</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“George!” Nathaniel says through gritted teeth, feeling his pulse in his eyeballs.  “You told some girl you met at an interview she could stay <em>here</em>?  In my apartment, where I live?  For <em>two months</em>?”</p><p>  <i>The summer before starting Stanford Law, Rebecca Bunch needs a place to stay while she answers the call of the theatre.</i></p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Rebecca Bunch/Nathaniel Plimpton</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>38</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>56</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“I found someone to rent my room while I’m gone,” George begins, washing into their shared living room on a wave of his typical nervous energy, sounding extremely pleased with himself.  “So don’t even worry about –”</p><p>“Wait, go back,” Nathaniel interrupts, looking up from the book in his lap and holding up a hand.  “You <em>what</em>?”</p><p>Nathaniel has managed to avoid George almost entirely since he interviewed for the Plimpton &amp; Plimpton internship, a suggestion he has been regretting continually since the moment he made it.  But now, by some twisted miracle, George has actually been offered the internship, and every minute spent in his company serves as an excruciating reminder of just how much Nathaniel’s father is going to hate him.  With the consequences of his moment of sentimentality casting a shadow over their every interaction, Nathaniel has barely looked George in the eye for two days, too acutely aware of all the unfair and unfavourable ways George is going to reflect on him.</p><p>But now, attention well and truly caught, he stares at George in horrified disbelief.</p><p>Oblivious, George continues, “She’s starting Stanford Law next semester too – she was interviewing for the P&amp;P internship the same day as me, and she added me on Facebook, and now it turns out she’s working <em>here</em> for the summer instead!  So I told her she can have my room while I’m gone so you won’t be missing out on my rent, and I’ll –”</p><p>“George!” Nathaniel says through gritted teeth, feeling his pulse in his eyeballs.  “You told some girl you met at an interview she could stay <em>here</em>?  In my apartment, where I live?  For <em>two months</em>?”</p><p>At last recognising his mistake, George meets Nathaniel’s eyes with no small measure of trepidation.  “Yes?” he says.  He straightens his shoulders and continues, “Yes, I did, because her apartment isn’t available until the middle of August and she really needed somewhere to. . .”  At Nathaniel’s withering expression, he cringes and starts backing toward the kitchen door.  “I’ll just, um – do you want coffee?  I’ll make some coffee.”</p><p>Nathaniel drags his hand over his face and, with tremendous difficulty, keeps his mouth shut as George scuttles into the kitchen.</p><p>Eight weeks isn’t too bad, he tells himself.  Any idiot can avoid the stranger living in their apartment for eight weeks.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>By the time she is an hour late, Nathaniel has given up on pacing in favour of sitting on the edge of the sofa, frowning in the direction of the hallway with one hand wrapped tightly around George’s keys.  He’s already called Proctor &amp; Whitefeather to let them know he’ll be late, but somehow Darryl’s text telling him to take the whole day if he needs it has only put him more on edge.  Plimptons are never late, and they certainly don’t take personal days.</p><p>He has just started to think he may actually kill George when there’s a knock at the door.  Letting out a long breath, he strides toward the door and opens it, and he’s not entirely sure what he was expecting, but she is not it.</p><p>A clear foot shorter than him, hair on the frizzy side of curly, she’s dressed in yoga pants and an oversized sweater with <em>Harvard </em>unsubtly emblazoned across the chest.  She spills past him into the hallway and drops an enormous backpack at her feet with a thud.  “Oh my god, <em>hi</em>,” she says, whirling around to face him, visibly frazzled but smiling brightly.  “<em>Hiii</em>, hi hi, I’m so sorry, I think someone famous was on my flight?  We had to wait on the plane for like a half hour before they even opened the doors, then there were a lot of crowds and cameras, but I didn’t see anyone I recognised, so I’m thinking sports personality.”</p><p>She drops back dramatically against the wall as if she’s just sprinted up the stairs, although the elevator doors are still sliding shut.  Her forehead creases a little as she looks him over, the confusion in the furrow of her eyebrows reminding him that he’s still standing perfectly still, one hand on the door handle, staring at her.  He glances down, clears his throat.</p><p>“You’re Nathaniel, right?” she says, looking up and down the hallway then back at him, uncertainty creeping into her tone.  “George’s friend?  I’m in the right place?”</p><p>“I’m Nathaniel,” he agrees, sidestepping the other two questions.  “And you’re Rebecca?”</p><p>“Rebecca Nora Bunch,” she says brightly, standing up straight and extending her hand.  He shakes it automatically. Her grip is surprisingly firm, the tilt of her head openly curious.  He shoves his hand in his pocket, palm tingling from the contact.  “Pleased to meet you,” she says, eyes gracefully sliding from his face down the length of his body and back again, her face scrunching in confusion.  “What are you wearing?”</p><p>He feels his eyebrows start to climb his forehead in surprise, and schools his expression back to something nearer neutral.  “A suit,” he replies tightly.  “Because I’m going to work now.  So I’ll see you later.”  He glances at the door to George’s bedroom, belatedly realising there’s still a little plaque on it that reads <em>George’s Room</em>.  Cringing, he snatches it off.  “That’s your room,” he says, indicating the door.  “You have your own bathroom.  The kitchen is through the living room, down the hall.  I’ll see you later.”</p><p>He extends the keys toward her, dangling them from his index finger.  She takes them, her face falling, shoulders slumping.  “You’re leaving right now?” she says.  Her tone is wounded, like he’s gone back on a promise to spend the day painting each other’s toenails.</p><p>“Yes,” he says, disproportionately irritated.  “I <em>should’ve</em> left an hour ago.”</p><p>“But then – who’s gonna help me bring all my stuff upstairs?” she says, looking up at him through her eyelashes.</p><p>He barely suppresses an eye roll.  “The elevator?” he suggests politely.</p><p>She lets her own eye roll go freely, exaggerates it even, and changes tack immediately.  “Come on, dude, it’ll take like five minutes, tops.  And you’re already late, right?”  She straightens her shoulders.  “You’re seriously gonna walk right past all my bags in the lobby and go to work right now?”  She looks him up and down again, meeting his eyes defiantly with the air of someone about to play a winning hand.  “Is that how your parents raised you?”</p><p>He stares at her, incredulous, and she raises her eyebrows a fraction and stares back.  Her eyes are a light greyish blue, and warm somehow, sparkling with the kind of determination that suggests resistance is futile.  He thinks he has an idea of how George came to be convinced giving away his bedroom was a stroke of genius.  He wonders who was on the interview panel for the internship, wonders which idiots chose George over this girl.  He clears his throat, glancing at his watch.  She’s already smiling when he looks back at her, warm and bright.  He sighs.  “How much stuff do you have?”</p><p>Grinning, she punches him unnecessarily hard on the arm as she skips past him toward the elevator.  “Look at you, I knew you’d be a gentleman!” she says, delighted.  “Come on, roomie!”</p><p>Rubbing his arm, he gives another moment’s contemplation to killing George, then pulls the door shut behind them and follows Rebecca into the elevator.  She bounces on her toes the whole way down, buoyant with victory, and he counts to ten in his head and stares straight forward.</p><p>There’s a small mountain of bags and suitcases in the lobby, topped with a giant stuffed alligator.  Rebecca grabs this first, hugging it to her chest then tucking it under her arm before grabbing a suitcase.  “Ruth Gator Ginsburg,” she says in response to his amused expression, tipping her head to indicate the gator.</p><p>“Ah,” he replies, picking up a bag in each hand and heading back toward the elevator.  “Law school, right?”</p><p>“Stanford Law,” she trills, following him, wrestling the cumbersome gator through the doors and dropping her suitcase immediately at her feet.  She hits the button for their floor.  “Yup.  George said you’re starting too?”</p><p>Nathaniel nods.</p><p>“So that’s why the suit, right?  You’re interning?”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>She tilts her head to the side, looking him over expectantly, clearly waiting for him to say something more.  He finds his neck prickling under her gaze, and resists the temptation to look away.  “But not at your family’s firm?” she presses.</p><p>His spine stiffens at the question.  “I’ll be more of an asset to the firm if I bring a broad range of experiences,” he says crisply, his standard non-answer. </p><p>She nods slowly.  “Huh.  That. . . sure.  I guess.”</p><p>“It’s really none of your business,” he says, sharper than he intended.</p><p>The elevator doors slide open and she raises her eyebrows and steps smartly past him.  “Check your tone, dude,” she says, dumping her suitcase and gator by the apartment door then spinning round to face him.</p><p>Her eye contact is all determination again, and he realises she’s expecting an apology.  Which is ridiculous, obviously, because she’s weird and invasive and just whirled into his apartment like a little hurricane and started interrogating him about his life.  Her eyes bore into him, and he glares back at her.  After a couple of seconds, it starts to feel like staring at the sun – her disapproval shines right out of her in beams that make his skin prickle.  He opens the door and lifts her bags inside, placing the gator down on top.</p><p>“I just mean – well,” she says, following him back toward the elevator, her voice softening again, “seeing the world when you know exactly where you’re gonna end up, you know?  What if the universe surprises you?  What if you see somewhere else you really want to be, but you’ve already bought a one way ticket to Plimpton &amp; Plimpton?  Or will it be Plimpton, Plimpton &amp; Plimpton?”</p><p>“Very invested in my future for someone who met me five minutes ago, aren’t you?” he observes, pressing the button for the ground floor and looking down at her.</p><p>She hums, apparently considering this.  “Maybe I’m not <em>entirely</em> talking about you,” she says eventually, glancing at him with a self-conscious smile before stepping out into the lobby.</p><p>Bemused, he follows her, and she grabs another couple of bags.  He picks up the remaining three.  They’re heavier than the previous ones, and as he juggles a bit to find a way to hold them comfortably, she shoots him an apologetic look.  “I brought a few books,” she says.  “I won’t think you’re unmanly or anything if you put one of those back down.  I can come back for it.”</p><p>He tightens his grip.  “It’s fine.”</p><p>She shrugs, leading the way back to the elevator.</p><p>“I was going to intern this summer,” she says, as they start going up.  “Then another opportunity came my way and I just <em>knew</em> it was the right thing, you know?”</p><p>He says nothing.  If this is how she wants to sell missing out on an internship, that’s her problem.</p><p>“I <em>did</em>,” she insists, somehow emphasising the syllable with her entire body.  “I do.  It was fate, and you can’t say no to fate, right?”</p><p>“You can’t?” he says, lowering the heaviest bag delicately to the floor at his feet.</p><p>“<em>No</em>,” she says firmly.  “You can’t.  There’ll be plenty of time for internships.  I’m a good student, and I’m gonna be a good lawyer.  I work hard, and I interview well, and I’m gonna get more internships.  Just – this past year has been, um. . . I needed. . .”  She frowns, conflicting emotions written so clearly all over her face it suddenly feels intrusive to look at her, but he can’t quite bring himself to look away.  He watches, cataloguing every change in her expression, strangely fascinated.  She glances up at him then away again quickly when she finds him looking back at her, rearranging her features into a determined smile.  “This summer, fate intervened,” she says brightly.  Affecting a dramatic, not-quite-English accent, she adds, “The theatre called.”</p><p>He blinks, letting that sink in.  “That. . . sounds reasonable.”</p><p>The elevator doors open, they carry the rest of her stuff into the apartment together, and she turns to him, arms folded across her chest.</p><p>“Thank you,” she says, back to her regular voice.  “For helping.  I’ll um – I’ll see you later?”</p><p>The undisguised hope in her voice tightens the muscles in his jaw.  He grabs his messenger bag from the hook behind the door, suddenly desperate to get out of there.  “I’ll need to work late.”</p><p>“I’m here all night,” she says with a defeated shrug.  She glances between her luggage and her bedroom door, then gives him a tiny smile.  “Have a good day.”</p><p>“Right,” he says.  He reaches for the door handle.  “Um, thanks.  You too.  Bye.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Paula Proctor is, Nathaniel’s father would say, a bleeding heart liberal, using commercial real estate law to fund pro bono criminal defence cases.  She takes lunch breaks and vacation days, brings donuts into the office, and gossips with the paralegals.  She’s cutthroat and decisive when she needs to be, and wears accessories that look like they come from souvenir stands.  The judgemental voice in the back of Nathaniel’s mind is quick to tell him how much <em>better </em>she could be, how much more successful, if she would just focus, but Paula loves law in a way Nathaniel never really realised was possible.  When she interviewed him, she talked about loving the research, and the buzz of a win, and about finding her voice and using it to help people.  She was impressive to listen to, and with each word she said, it settled in with crystal clarity that his father would dislike almost everything about this woman, and would probably never win an argument with her.  Nathaniel hadn’t honestly cared very much where he did his internship before, as long as it was a firm with a decent enough reputation to keep his father appeased, but by the time he walked out of Paula’s office, he wanted to be there.</p><p>She’s out on a pro bono case when he gets in, so he knocks on Darryl’s door instead.  As far as Nathaniel can tell, Darryl doesn’t have a whole lot in common with Paula, besides their affinity for candy and carbs, but Darryl informs him they are best friends.  His office is an assault on the senses, overflowing with what appear to be gas station souvenirs of wolves and eagles, and a huge painting of a desert landscape on the wall behind the desk.  It’s been a week since they met, and Nathaniel has already seen Darryl cry three times over videos of cute animals on Instagram.  He met Nathaniel’s father at a conference – an interaction Nathaniel really doesn’t want to imagine in detail – and seems intent on convincing him to delve into the details of their relationship, possibly while eating fries.  Consequently, Nathaniel spends a lot of time in his company saying as little as possible.</p><p>“Hey, I said you could have the day off!” Darryl says as Nathaniel steps across the threshold.  “Are you sure your emergency is dealt with?”</p><p>“It wasn’t an emergency,” Nathaniel says.  “It was – it doesn’t matter.  Yes, it’s dealt with.”</p><p>“Well, if you’re sure.  If there’s anything I can help with, you know where to find me.”  Darryl raises his eyebrows expectantly, but before Nathaniel can formulate a response, he continues, “Hey, good news.  Paula snagged a meeting with that wellness retreat company she had her eye on, and she wants you on board for the pitch.  She’s emailed you everything you need to get started, but if you need any more help, you know where to look!”  He smiles, drawing a little circle over his own head with his index finger.</p><p>“I will keep that in mind,” Nathaniel says, already opening the door and backing out of the office.  “Thanks, Darryl.”</p><p>“You know where I am!” Darryl calls after him, waving enthusiastically.</p><p>Nathaniel spends most of the day engrossed in research, reading everything Paula sent and noting down points to look into more.  Paula gets back late afternoon, and he sits in on a staff meeting then gets back to his notes, barely noticing everyone leaving around him.  Paula stops by his cubicle on her way out, leaning against the partition with her suit jacket over her arm.  “It’s almost six,” she says.  “You can go.”</p><p>“I was late this morning,” he says, looking up from his computer.</p><p>“I know, I got your message,” she says.  “Did the new roommate ever show?”  She perks up, apparently spying potential gossip fodder.  “Ooh, are you avoiding going home because of her?”  She leans in enthusiastically and adds, “Is she a serial killer?”</p><p>Nathaniel half smiles.  “Not as far as I know,” he says.  “She was um – weird.”</p><p>He frowns, not entirely sure why he’s given even that much away.  His father has told him a thousand times that people who talk about home life at work are people who can’t focus on the task at hand.  Plimptons are disciplined, and home is private.</p><p>Paula grins, tapping the partition.  “Well,” she says, “keep me posted.  Axe murderers come in all shapes and sizes, you know.”  She takes a couple of backward steps toward the elevator.  “And Nathaniel?”</p><p>“Mm?”</p><p>She jabs an accusing finger in his direction.  “Go home.  I mean it.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The first thing he notices when he steps into the apartment is a strong smell of burning.  The second thing is Rebecca rushing out of the kitchen, her hair falling out of her ponytail and a towel slung over one shoulder.  “Everything’s fine!” she says, a little too brightly.  “I made dinner!  And it um – it’s not exactly the <em>best</em>, but it’s food, and I made it.  And you can have some.”</p><p>Cautiously, Nathaniel peers in the direction of the closed kitchen door.  “Is something on fire right now?”</p><p>“What?” she says, eyes wide.  “No!  Of course not!  That’s ridiculous.”</p><p>He pinches the bridge of his nose.  “Very convincing,” he says, and she scowls at him.  “I’m going for a shower now.  If something is on fire, please put it out.”</p><p>He sidesteps her to get to his bedroom.</p><p>“Nothing’s on fire!” she calls after him as he closes the door.</p><p>He rolls his eyes and grabs some sweatpants and a t-shirt, then heads for the shower.</p><p>By the time he emerges, the kitchen door is open, along with most of the windows.  She’s standing at the sink with her back to the door, scrubbing violently.  The smoky smell has improved somewhat, and once he’s reassured himself the apartment is in no immediate danger of burning down, he starts noticing other changes.  She’s draped a fluffy throw over the back of the sofa and hung fairy lights around the mirror, and there are several unlit scented candles scattered around the surfaces.  He frowns, picking one up and sniffing it dubiously.  Lavender.  “Are you sure you should be around fire?” he calls.</p><p>Her head appears in the kitchen doorway, eyes wide and startled.  “What are you talking about?” she says, her voice high and tense.</p><p>Eyebrows raised, he puts the candle back down and replies, “Are you not scrubbing the charred remains of your dinner off of my property right now?”</p><p>“Oh, that,” she sighs.  “Yes.”</p><p>She disappears back into the kitchen.</p><p>“What did you think I was talking about?” he says, but he’s not entirely sure he wants to know the answer, so when she doesn’t reply, he doesn’t push it.  He wanders toward the kitchen, steps warily inside and cringes.  She’s back to her scrubbing.  There are two bowls of pasta on the table, and the counter is littered with packaging and what appears to be every knife, pan and cutting board he owns.  On one of the cutting boards rests a lump of something that looks a lot like charcoal.  He prods it gingerly.  “Who fed you in undergrad?”</p><p>“Hmm?”  She half turns toward him, still scrubbing.  “Oh, that’s garlic bread.”</p><p>“That doesn’t answer my – never mind.”  He picks it up between his thumb and forefinger and drops it into the trash, then uses a dish towel to wipe the blackened remains off his fingertips.  “You can leave that,” he says.</p><p>“I’ll get it,” she insists.</p><p>“I really don’t think you will,” he replies, folding his arms and leaning back against the clearest bit of counter.  “It’s fine.  Eat.”</p><p>She turns to look at him suspiciously, her forearms soapy, the pushed-up sleeves of her sweater damp at the edges.  She looks at him so long he feels his cheeks warm.  “What?” he says, a little defensive.</p><p>“Aren’t you mad at me?” she says.  “I totally wrecked this.”  She holds up the pan to demonstrate.  The inside is coated in a thick layer of solid black. </p><p>She peers into it, then back at him.  She looks apprehensive, her eyes wide and lips thin like he might tell her she’s grounded, and something about the vulnerability in her expression makes his chest feel tight.  “Replacing it isn’t a problem,” he says awkwardly.  “You can clean up later,” he adds as an afterthought.</p><p>“Right,” she says, glancing around the room and wincing.  “It’s um – I don’t cook much.”</p><p>“You don’t say.”</p><p>She grins, sitting down at the table.  “Shut up.  You want some?  I think I managed to salvage some of the sauce.  I picked out most of the black stuff. . .”</p><p>“I don’t eat pasta,” he says, opening the refrigerator.</p><p>Her eyes go wide, apparently aghast.  “<em>Why</em>?”</p><p>“Because I – my god, what have you put in here?”</p><p>His fridge, which was this morning filled mostly with vegetables, is now packed with all kinds of calorific garbage, including several containers of cream cheese stacked on top of each other.</p><p>“Food,” she replies around a mouthful of pasta.</p><p>“This is not food,” he says, shifting aside the cream cheese tower and reaching for the bag of spinach now shoved to the back.  “This is a heart attack waiting to happen.”</p><p>“God, you’re one of those,” she mutters.</p><p>“One of what?”  He grabs the rest of his smoothie ingredients and starts shoving them in the blender, the whole task just a little more difficult with no counter space.</p><p>“My body is a temple, food is fuel and it’s morally unacceptable to eat for enjoyment, I know my body fat percentage and consider it a measure of my worth as a person, et cetera,” Rebecca recites immediately.  “One of those.”</p><p>He adds a scoop of protein powder then shoves the lid on the blender, annoyance flaring in his chest.  “Oh, because that’s worse than eating Kraft cheese singles straight from the fridge in the middle of the night.”  He flips the switch on the blender.</p><p>“Excuse me?” Rebecca says, half shouting over the whirring sound.  “I haven’t even been here for a night yet, judgy.”</p><p>“Are you telling me I’m wrong?”</p><p>“No,” she says.  “I’m telling you you’re projecting your body image issues onto everyone around you, and it’s a dick move.”</p><p>He glares at her.  She glares back, the effect diminished somewhat when the pasta twirl she’s speared on her fork falls onto the table.  He rolls his eyes and turns back to the blender, hitting the switch and pouring the contents into a glass.  It really could use more time – there are still some pretty gross-looking lumps – but his skin is itching under the spotlight of her indignation, and it’s making him jumpy.  He picks up his glass and starts toward the door.</p><p>“Hey, wait!” she says, and when he turns to her, her face looks like maybe she’s not entirely sure why she stopped him.  She squeezes her eyes shut for a second, her knuckles white where her hand is wrapped around the glass of water in front of her, and the urge to bolt from the room is very nearly overwhelming.  But when her eyes meet his again, it pins him to the spot.  She clears her throat.  “Um.  How was your day?” she says, shooting for casual and landing nearer unnerving.  “How’s your internship?”</p><p>He stares for a second, torn.  She’s weird and intense and she’s basically destroyed his kitchen, and ignoring her for eight weeks seems by far the wisest option.  But there’s something unsettling in her eyes – something desperate and not entirely unfamiliar – that opens a fissure somewhere in his chest, and walking away feels both sensible and impossible.  He turns cautiously, placing his glass down on the table and turning his back on her to rinse out the blender.  “It was fine,” he says.  “Proctor &amp; Whitefeather – do you know it?”</p><p>“No, I don’t think so,” she says, “but I didn’t really look at firms outside of LA.  You like it?”</p><p>He pauses, staring at the wall for a moment in contemplation before turning back toward her.  “It’s a good firm,” he says.</p><p>She nods, stirring her pasta around with her fork.  He sits opposite her at the table and takes a drink of his smoothie.  She stares down at her bowl, chewing at her lip.  The chasm in his chest widens, making him want to say something, making it impossible to think of anything worth saying.  Just as the silence starts to become awkward, she says without looking up, “I have an audition on Friday, for a musical.  So fair warning, I’m probably gonna be singing the same song over and over for the next several days.”</p><p>“Something to look forward to,” he says, and she meets his eyes with a hesitant smile.  He pushes his shoulders back, forcing some of the tension out of his muscles.  “What’s the play?”</p><p>Her smile widens, eyes sparkling.  “You know musicals?”</p><p>He shrugs.  “I mean, not really.  I know the musicals everybody knows.”</p><p>“It’s <em>Saloon Nights and Engine Fights</em>,” she says.  “Elliot Ellison?  The train one?”</p><p>He shakes his head.</p><p>“Well,” she says, undeterred, “it’s a classic, and I can’t wait.  I’ve already been accepted to the program, but I don’t get assigned a part until after the audition on Friday, so I need to practise.  There are a lot of great parts, but I haven’t had an audition since – well.”  She falters, looking away.  “It’s been a while.”</p><p>“So you can sing?”</p><p>“I’m. . . not the best,” she says, shrugging, twirling a stray strand of hair around her finger thoughtfully.  “But I’m not the worst either.  I’m a better dancer than a singer, but I get by.”</p><p>The prospect of her dancing piques his interest, intriguing in a way that catches him off guard.  She doesn’t look like any dancer he’s known – they were all of the leggy, lithe variety, and much more his type – but there is something intriguing about the idea of giving movement to her excessive, ever-shifting energy.  “Well,” he says, trying his best to ignore this unsettling development.  “Um, sing away.”</p><p>She grins.  “Oh I absolutely will.  But I appreciate your approval.”</p><p>She takes another bite of her pasta and pulls a face.</p><p>“How’s your pasta?” he asks, grateful for the subject change, however weak.</p><p>“Terrible,” she replies, without missing a beat.  She spears a piece on her fork and offers it to him.  “It tastes like it was scooped out of a barbecue pit.  You should really try some, just for the experience.”</p><p>“Hmm,” he says, mock-thoughtful.  “I think I’ll take your word for it.”</p><p>She shrugs.  “Your loss.”  She pops the pasta in her mouth.  “How’s your smoothie?”</p><p><em>Adequate</em>.  <em>Nutritionally complete</em>.  <em>Twenty-three grams of protein</em>.  “It’s good.”  She raises her eyebrows dubiously and he tilts the glass in her direction.  “Want to try?”</p><p>She wrinkles her nose, wrinkles her entire face, recoiling in exaggerated disgust.  Amused and irritated in equal measure, he rolls his eyes and drains his glass, determinedly suppressing a wince when he gets to the lumpy, powdery stuff at the bottom.  She smirks, but doesn’t comment.</p><p>He stands, rinses the glass out and sets it on the drainer.  “Well, I have work to do,” he says.  “Enjoy your terrible pasta.  Also, UberEats works here, just for the record.  Assuming you’re going to want to eat actual food at some point.”</p><p>“You’re like, <em>so</em> hilarious,” she says, pulling a face at him, and this time when he reaches the door, she lets him leave.  He is definitely not smiling when he walks through his bedroom door and opens his laptop.  He definitely doesn’t think about whether he’ll get to see her dancing.  And later that night, he is decidedly not charmed by the sound of her singing scales from the shower.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you <b>pictureofsoph1sticatedgrace</b> for both encouraging and improving my stupid title idea, and <b>heartbash</b> for teaching me the ways of the outline, and <b>WhatTheElle</b> for catching my typos!</p><p>And thank you for reading!  I tried to redirect my brain from this idea many times, but it was not to be swayed, and I'm excited about it!  Drop a comment and / or come say hi on tumblr - I'm <b>eyesontheskyline</b> there too.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Two days pass in a haze of kaleidoscopic colour and erratic bursts of energy.  Rebecca sings in the shower.  She sings in the kitchen while she makes cream cheese bagels.  After breakfast, she pushes all the furniture in her bedroom back against the walls so she can dance while Nathaniel is at work.  She’s finally made it here – to the theatre, to Josh – and all the places in her brain that had faded to grey have lit up so brightly she can barely contain it.  She hardly sleeps at night, hardly feels like she needs sleep when she’s so wired, then crashes hard at random times, passing out in the middle of the day with her laptop still blaring music.</p><p>She pays for everything in cash, like she lives in a spy movie and has a drawer full of secret identities.  Probably Naomi wouldn’t notice a few items on the credit card bill in entirely the wrong part of the state, but Rebecca is not willing to bank her one big shot at happiness on her not noticing for eight whole weeks.</p><p>On Friday morning, she runs into Nathaniel, literally steps out of her bedroom door right into his shoulder.  “Sorry!” she says, leaping back as he jolts away and spins to face her.  “Sorry, hi, good morning.”</p><p>He looks her up and down, eyebrows raised.  “You’re up early,” he comments, adjusting his gym bag on his shoulder and straightening his suit jacket.  She knows what he’s thinking – when they met in the hallway the previous evening, he looked like he was running for Congress and she looked like she had just crawled out of a swamp.  Today she’s in a floral sundress, hair tamed, mascara on, looking like an actual human being.  She stares at him defiantly: <em>judge me now, Plimpton</em>.</p><p>“And you’re dressed,” he says evenly, his gaze flickering past her to her already-messy bedroom floor then back.  She takes a single, long stride into the hallway, pulling the door shut behind her with a breezy smile.  “Today’s the big day, right?  Is your audition early?”</p><p>“Today is the big day,” she replies cheerfully.  “Two big days in one, actually.  My audition is tonight, but also I start my new job today, with my future roommate, and it’s gonna be great.”</p><p>“Ah,” he says, the ghost of a smirk crossing his face.  “Chef?”</p><p>“<em>No</em>,” she says, folding her arms across her chest, feeling a ridiculous little stab of satisfaction when his eyes flicker downward before snapping back to hers.  “Barista, actually.  And again – it’s gonna be great, so there.”</p><p>He seems to battle with himself, pressing his lips tightly together for a moment before saying, “Well.  Have a good day.”</p><p>“I – I will,” she says, thrown, her arms dropping back to her sides.  “I – yeah.  I will.  It’s gonna be good.  And um – you too.”</p><p>He tilts his chin up a little, looking down at her, and it occurs to her not for the first time that he is absurdly tall and annoyingly good looking.  He nods once, then he’s gone, the door closing behind him with a click.  She stares at it for a moment, frowning, then sings her audition song again while she makes herself a bagel.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“So not to criticise, like, at all, but when you asked if we were hiring and said you had experience, that was a lie, right?”</p><p>Rebecca looks from Heather – arms folded, a single eyebrow raised, the coolest non-Josh person Rebecca has ever met – to the array of poorly made coffees lined up in front of them on the counter.</p><p>“It was not a <em>lie</em>,” she begins, turning to meet Heather’s sceptical gaze, “so much as an <em>exaggeration</em>.  A slight stretch of the truth.”</p><p>“You’ve made yourself a coffee at home,” Heather translates, nodding.  Rebecca grimaces, but Heather doesn’t seem angry, just vaguely amused.  “Cool.  Well, lucky for you I am a great teacher, so.  Get ready to learn, Harvard.  We’re gonna get you competent by lunch time.”</p><p>Unable to keep the smile off her face, Rebecca begins, “How did you know I went to –?”</p><p>“It was part of your opening pitch for why you should be my new roommate,” Heather says slowly.  “You literally put ‘Harvard grad seeks room for Stanford Law’ as your subject line.  You already forgot?”</p><p>“I sent a lot of messages,” Rebecca says, scrunching her nose.</p><p>“Uh huh, and I bet you mentioned Harvard in every last one.”</p><p>She opens her mouth to defend herself with a straight up lie, but Heather shakes her head, pre-emptively shutting her up.  “I mean, it’s fine.  It’s partly why I picked you, actually?” she says, head tilted thoughtfully.  “Not because you went to Harvard – I don’t care about that, like, any amount.”  Rebecca opens her mouth again, but Heather continues, “You reminded me of my roommate now – he tells everyone he ever meets that he got into Emory.”  She rolls her eyes affectionately and adds, “The Harvard of the South.”</p><p>“The Harvard of the South is Vanderbilt.”</p><p>Heather snorts.  “Yeah, you and Greg probably shouldn’t hang out.  Anyway, now that he’s actually <em>going </em>to Emory, I’m gonna need a new roomie, and I guess I was feeling sentimental or whatever, so.”  She shrugs.  “You’re up, I guess.”</p><p>The knowledge of being <em>chosen </em>settles over Rebecca, warm and comforting.  Finding Heather was one of the many things about coming here that felt like fate – someone who had a decently affordable room to rent in Palo Alto in the fall, plus a bit of light Facebook stalking revealed that she worked in a coffee shop that was looking for another barista.  All Rebecca had to do then was find somewhere to stay for the rest of the summer, and a bit <em>more</em> light Facebook stalking confirmed that George would be moving to LA for the P&amp;P internship.  She’d felt the heady rush of the stars aligning as she messaged George, sure beyond all doubt that this was the step she was supposed to take.</p><p>Buoyed, she asks, “Can we try the cappuccino again?  My last one was <em>way </em>less bad.”</p><p>Heather reaches past her for another cup, shaking her head.  “Sure, kiddo.”</p><p>By the lunch time rush, Rebecca has succeeded in making one of everything on the menu reasonably competently by following Heather’s instructions, first spoken then written on notecards and taped to the counter.  What she lacks in accuracy she tries to make up for in enthusiasm, asking every customer’s name and chatting to them while she fumbles through taking orders and making coffees.  When it starts to slow down again, Heather disappears into the back to unpack a delivery, and Rebecca straightens her apron and takes a deep breath.  One happy customer sitting at a window table with a laptop open, one couple eating muffins at another table, and a red-haired lady in a suit walking through the door.  She can do this.</p><p>She summons her brightest customer service smile.  “Good afternoon!  What can I get for you on this beautiful day?”</p><p>The woman blinks at Rebecca in startled amusement.  “Wow,” she says.  “You’re new here, huh?”</p><p>“Yes I am,” Rebecca says cheerfully.  “I just moved here from New York.  Well, New York, then Cambridge, then New York again, and now here.  Following my dreams, you know.”  She indicates the handwritten name badge pinned to her apron.  “I’m Rebecca.”</p><p>“Paula,” the woman replies, with a bemused little laugh, a smile in her eyes that makes Rebecca feel warm all the way to her toes.  “I will have an iced mocha and a chocolate chip cookie, please, Rebecca.”</p><p>“You got it!”</p><p>Rebecca squints at Heather’s instructions and starts the mocha.</p><p>“So, what kind of dreams are you following?” Paula asks.  “School, new job, joining the circus, love of your life?”</p><p>Rebecca spills milk on her feet at the last one.</p><p>“Ah,” Paula says, grinning.  “Love of your life.”  She leans forward eagerly.  “Tell me more – how did you meet?”</p><p>“Oh, um, that’s not why I’m here,” Rebecca says, a blush spreading on her face.  Paula’s eyebrows raise high on her forehead.  “It isn’t!” she insists, her voice quite a bit higher than usual.  She clears her throat and tries again.  “It isn’t.  I’m starting Stanford Law in the fall, and I’m here early to do a musical theatre program.  I heard about it from – um – from someone I knew when I was a teenager.  My audition is later today, actually.”</p><p>“Uh huh,” Paula says, waving a dismissive hand.  “Break a leg, you’re gonna be great.  What’s his name?”</p><p>Rebecca finishes the mocha, places it on the counter and starts ringing it up on the cash register.  “<em>He</em>,” she says, “is not why I’m here.”</p><p>“This isn’t iced, honey,” Paula points out, sliding the cup back across the counter.  “And he absolutely is, but if you don’t want to tell me about him. . .”</p><p>She raises her hands in surrender.  Blushing, Rebecca turns around to turn the mocha into an iced mocha, and Paula adds, “Cookie?”</p><p>She turns back, brow furrowed.  “What did you call me?”</p><p>Paula snorts.  “I <em>called you</em> honey.  I<em> asked you </em>for a cookie.”  She waves her credit card hopefully.  “I’ll even pay for it.”</p><p>Rebecca groans and finishes the iced mocha.  She hands it over and places a cookie in a paper bag.   “Sorry,” she says, cringing.  “I’m kinda bad at this.”</p><p>“Nah,” Paula says, taking the cookie and swiping her card.  “Well, yeah, you kinda are, but it’s your first day.  You’ll get better.”</p><p>Rebecca bites her lip.  “You think so?”</p><p>“Of course,” Paula shrugs.  “And hey – you’re following your dreams.  That’s worth more than anything.”  As the confidence in Paula’s voice sinks into her frazzled brain, Rebecca is suddenly overcome with an overwhelming, embarrassing urge to ask her for a hug.  She looks like she’d be a good hugger.  She smiles instead, and Paula smiles back.  “Trust me, cookie.”</p><p>“Are you making fun of me?” Rebecca asks cautiously.</p><p>“Only a little,” Paula assures her.  She takes a sip of her iced mocha, and Rebecca can’t help leaning forward a little, chewing the corner of her lip.  “It’s good,” Paula confirms, grinning.  “Thank you, and good luck with the man of your dreams.”</p><p>Blushing furiously, Rebecca wipes down the counter as Paula takes a seat at the window.  Then someone walking by outside the window catches her eye.  “Josh,” she whispers, the syllable falling from her lips without permission as a fresh wave of glitter explodes in her chest, her heart rate doubling before the door even opens.</p><p>He walks in, all warmth and dimpled smile, a flannel shirt tied around his waist and a pair of sunglasses hooked in the neck of his t-shirt.  “Hey, Becks!” he says, grinning.  “I can’t believe you’re really here!”</p><p>“I know, right?” she says, a trill of woodwind in her mind so loud and clear she’s almost surprised he doesn’t hear it.  Her heart rate jumps and her entire body tenses, standing at attention.  There’s a stab of pain in her sternum, which she tries to ignore by smiling wider.  “So weird!  How did you know I was working here?”</p><p>“Oh, you tagged your location on your Insta story,” Josh says, holding up his phone.  “Also Facebook.  Plus that status you posted last night saying today was your first shift here.”</p><p>“Right,” Rebecca says, laughing, the pain turning into a dull ache in the centre of her chest.  “Right, of course.  Yeah, I guess I was pretty easy to find, huh?  I mean, not that you came looking for me, god, it’s a free country, can’t a guy get a coffee in peace?”</p><p>She laughs a little too loudly, and Josh just smiles back.  Behind him, she catches sight of Paula craning around his shoulder, pointing at his back, mouthing, <em>Is this him?</em></p><p>Rebecca takes a step to the side to block her out.</p><p>“Anyway,” she says, squaring her shoulders and smiling brightly, “what can I get you?”</p><p>“Oh, just a coffee,” Josh says, shrugging.  “Just, like, any coffee.  I really just stopped in to say hi.”</p><p>“You did?” Rebecca breathes, feeling her eyes go wide, her heart pounding against her ribs.</p><p>“Yeah,” he says, like it’s nothing, like it isn’t the sweetest, most thoughtful thing.  “You’re auditioning tonight, right?  I’m heading over there to help set up later, but I’m gonna be working in the box office tonight, so I won’t get to watch the auditions.  So I thought I’d come and tell you good lu – wait.  Break a leg, right?”</p><p>“Right,” she laughs, breathy and surprised, and starts making a latte.  “Yeah.  Thank you.  That – that really means a lot.”</p><p>Josh shrugs, his smile wide and friendly.  “You always loved all that theatre stuff at camp.  You’re gonna be great.  And hey, maybe we’ll get to hang out some time and catch up.”</p><p>“Maybe we should hang out some time anyway,” Rebecca says, her mind so busy with <em>oh my god he remembers </em>that it doesn’t quite process what she’s saying until she’s said it.  She freezes.</p><p>“Yeah!” he says, grinning.  “Yeah, we should do that.  Let’s get dinner some time.”</p><p>“Dinner,” she agrees, smiling so wide her face hurts.  She finishes his latte and places it down on the counter.  He reaches for his wallet and she shakes her head.  “Oh, no, this is on the house,” she says.</p><p>“No it isn’t!” Heather calls from the back.</p><p>Josh freezes with a sheepish smile and raised eyebrows, hand still in his back pocket.</p><p>“It’s on me,” Rebecca corrects, undeterred.</p><p>“That’s better,” Heather says.</p><p>Josh laughs, sweet and warm and just how she remembered him, and takes the coffee.  “Well,” he says, “I’d better get going.  I’ll message you about dinner.  It’s good seeing you, Becks.”</p><p>“Thanks,” she breathes.  “It’s good to see you too, Josh Chan.”</p><p>He waves on his way out, and Rebecca waits just long enough for the door to click shut behind him before raising her arms in the air and spinning in a victory pirouette.  Heather emerges from the back, eyebrows raised high on her forehead.  “<em>What</em> was that,” she says.</p><p>Rebecca does another spin.  “<em>That </em>was Josh Chan asking me out to dinner!” she squeals.</p><p>“Uh huh,” Heather says.  “Um, congrats.  Hey, that laptop guy left while you were swooning – could you clear his table?”</p><p>Rebecca bounces off to the window table, spray cleaner and cloth in hand and starts wiping down the table with shaking hands.</p><p>“Hey,” Paula says, waving from the next table.  “That was the guy, right?  The one who totally isn’t why you’re here?”</p><p>Rebecca’s cheeks go instantly, incriminatingly pink, and by the time she turns to face Paula, she’s grinning uncontrollably.  “His name is Josh.”</p><p>Paula shifts her purse off the seat beside hers and pats it.  “Tell me everything.”</p><p>So she does – almost.  She glances at Heather, who gives her a ‘whatever’ wave of her hand, then sits down beside Paula.  She tells her about summer camp, then about interviewing for the Plimpton &amp; Plimpton internship, and Paula’s eyebrows raise in recognition, but she doesn’t say anything.  Rebecca realises with a weird jolt in her stomach that Paula must be a lawyer.  She tells her about wandering around LA afterward, sure she had the position and trying to feel happy about it, and seeing Josh Chan walking toward her on the street.  And okay, she had chosen Stanford over Yale when Harvard law fell through and she was interviewing at LA firms because Josh had made California sound <em>so</em> <em>great</em>, but she hadn’t actually expected to <em>see him</em> there.  Not by accident, not like this, just walking and scrolling through his phone, looking up at her then doing a double-take with dawning recognition – <em>Rebecca Bunch</em>!  She tells Paula about the feeling she got when he said her name, when she realised he remembered her, like glitter was exploding inside of her.</p><p>And then he told her he was moving here in a couple of weeks, to live with some buddies and work front of house at a theatre and hopefully get into working backstage, and the twinge of disappointment at him moving away exploded into more glitter when he said <em>theatre</em>.  He told her about this program, and <em>maybe </em>she had implied she had already been accepted when that wasn’t strictly true, but she’s in now, and that’s what matters.  She turned down the internship without a second thought.  She’s going to be in a musical and Josh Chan is going to be there, and the last horrible year of Harvard isn’t going to matter anymore.  She’s going to be happy.</p><p>Paula makes a good audience.  She says <em>oooh</em> and <em>of course!</em> in all the right places, and when Rebecca finally trails off, her cheeks warming again, feeling like <em>maybe</em> she’s just given a little too much away, Paula bumps her shoulder against Rebecca’s.  “He’s gonna love you,” she says.  “Who wouldn’t?  You’re sweet and brave and you’re gonna get all the great things you deserve.”</p><p>Rebecca caves this time.  Eyes filling with tears, lip trembling, she asks, “Can I have a hug?”</p><p>“Ohh, of course,” Paula coos, shifting her chair back a bit and holding her arms out.  Rebecca falls into them, burying her face in the shoulder of Paula’s fancy suit jacket, a silver cherry earring pressing into her temple as Paula’s arms wrap around her.</p><p>Paula hugs her tight, warm and grounding and rubbing her back a little, and Rebecca clings to her until she can get herself together.  The past few weeks have been a <em>lot</em> – a lot of planning and organising and sneaking around behind her mother’s back, switching flights and taking out bits of cash here and there, making up details of an internship Naomi can never find out she turned down. . .  Just a lot, in general, and she <em>knows</em> she’s going to be happy now she’s here, but she still can’t seem to stop herself from rattling and fizzing over and crying at unexpected moments. </p><p>She pulls back, wiping a tear from her cheek, glancing around the room.  Heather is staring at her; the other two customers in the room are very clearly trying not to.  “<em>Whoo</em>,” she breathes, half laughing as she meets Paula’s eyes again.  “Um, sorry about that, I don’t know. . . I don’t know what happened there.  Thanks for the hug.  And uh –” she adds, cringing, “– oh god, I’m so sorry, you must think I’m crazy.  Maybe I am, I don’t know, I don’t like that word, but I –”</p><p>“Hey,” Paula says, taking her hand and squeezing it hard.  “Stop.  It’s okay.”  She glances down at her watch and winces.  “I really need to get back to work now, but next time I see you, I want to hear an update, alright?  I want to hear about this date of yours.  You gonna be okay, cookie?”</p><p>“Yeah,” Rebecca whispers, standing up and taking Paula’s empty cup from the table with a shaky smile.  “I’m gonna be okay.  Thank you.  Um, have a good day.”</p><p>Paula gives her another warm smile then leaves, loudly telling the other customers on her way out to mind their own damn business.</p><p>“Hey, uh, so don’t take this the wrong way,” Heather begins as Rebecca steps back behind the counter, “but how much human contact would you say you’ve been getting recently?”</p><p>Rebecca sniffs, wiping the corners of her eyes with a napkin.  “Huh?  Why would you ask that?”</p><p>“Oh, no reason,” Heather says.  “Except you just, like, imprinted on that customer like a duckling.”</p><p>Rebecca scowls.  “I did not.”</p><p>“Oh, you totally did,” Heather replies, nodding sagely.  “You also literally danced for joy at the concept of going for dinner with a guy.  Did you wanna hang out sometime?”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Rebecca has read maybe a hundred articles about how to prepare for an audition.  She could recite a list of dos and don’ts as long as her arm, some of which are infuriatingly contradictory.  She’s hydrated, and early, and knows her material as well as she knows her own face.  She does a full warm up in the ladies’ room, including stretches and vocal exercises and two minutes of power posing in the mirror like that one TED talk said she should.</p><p>Her sheet music is freshly, perfectly printed, and she hands it to the pianist in a binder with the bright, confident smile of someone whose brain is not exploding into a thousand multicoloured fireworks, then she walks to centre stage with her head high and shoulders back and introduces herself.</p><p>For hours, there have been indistinct, half-formed anxieties buzzing constantly around inside her skull that have left her very little room to really process the physical word around her, but the stage feels solid and real under her feet.  The air in the theatre reminds her of a library, still and full of promise.  She takes a breath that’s both relieved and steadying, and starts her song.  It’s comfortably in her range, not the most difficult, but fun to sing, and she can be expressive with it.  It feels <em>good </em>singing it on a stage, hearing it in the air around her, and by the time she finishes it and starts her monologue – words she’s said so many times they appear in her dreams – the director is smiling. </p><p>There’s a dance audition after, which feels good and all the right kinds of challenging, then the director says they’ll find out their parts tomorrow, and she stops by the box office to say goodbye to Josh, but he’s selling tickets and there’s a queue.</p><p>She picks up Chinese food on her way home, orders extra egg rolls and tries to ignore the gut punch of disappointment she feels when she gets back to the apartment and Nathaniel isn’t home yet.  It’s not that he’s particularly great company; it’s just that there’s all this energy constantly coming to life inside her ribcage and vibrating outward and she has no audition to prepare for and no part assigned yet.  She’s going to hang out with Heather this weekend, and Josh is going to be in touch with a time and place for their date, but that doesn’t make the apartment any less empty right now.</p><p>She eats at the kitchen table then has a long, hot shower.  The acoustics are great in her bathroom.  She sings for a bit, her audition song out of sheer habit, then just stands under the shower spray with her eyes closed, breathing in steam.  She imagines standing under a spotlight in the middle of the stage, looking out at the mostly empty theatre.  She imagines Josh there, smiling at her, all warmth and dimples.  It turns into a whole musical number, the Rebecca in her mind singing clear and confident, telling imaginary Josh everything she never got to tell him after camp.</p><p>Back in her bedroom, she sits cross legged in front of the mirror and blow dries her hair.  She picks up her clothes from the floor and stuffs them in the laundry basket, then the empty bookcase by her bed draws her attention.  Her books are the last thing she has left to unpack.  It’s getting late, too late to start a task really, but the restless energy buzzes through her and out of her, filling the empty apartment with noisy, fuzzy static that she knows from experience will make sleep impossible.</p><p>She throws the bag open and starts pulling books out and shoving them haphazardly on the shelves.</p><p>At the bottom of the bag, she finds the workbooks her doctor gave her at the hospital, all perfect corners and unbroken spines.  She holds one in her hands for a few seconds and stares at the diagnosis on the cover, then gives herself a shake, stacks the workbooks on the bottom shelf and shoves a folder on top of them.</p><p>She’s still on the floor when Nathaniel gets home, scrolling through Josh’s Instagram with a blanket pulled off her bed and wrapped around her shoulders.  She’s on her feet before she’s really processed the click of the front door, and standing in the hallway a second later.</p><p>Nathaniel whirls around, startled.  “Wow,” he says.  “Uh, hi.  Cold?”</p><p>“A little,” she says, as casually as she can, adjusting her blanket around her shoulders.  His eyebrows tick up sceptically.  “You’re home late.”  She cringes the second it’s out of her mouth, but can’t stop herself from adding, “Hot date?”</p><p>He frowns the tiniest amount, looking at her closely like he’s trying to puzzle her out, then steps past her to open his bedroom door and drop his gym bag inside.  “I was at the pool,” he says, closing the door and turning back to her, raising an eyebrow.  “Why – miss me?”</p><p>“What?” she scoffs.  “No!  Obviously not, oh my god.  I just thought maybe you like. . . died, or moved away, or decided to stay somewhere else until the weird girl was gone from your apartment, or. . .”</p><p>She hears the edge of tension in her voice that keeps the joke from landing and squeezes her eyes shut, trailing off before she can dig the hole any deeper.</p><p>“Well, good thing you have no deep rooted abandonment issues you should be concerned about,” Nathaniel says, his tone betraying a hint of uneasiness.</p><p>“Lucky me,” she mutters, and opens her eyes in time to see the flash of guilt that crosses his face.  She takes a breath, straightening her shoulders, determined to salvage a scrap of dignity.  “Well, you’re alive, so I’ll just, um – I’m gonna go to bed.”</p><p>She turns back toward her bedroom door, then his hand is on her shoulder.  “Wait,” he says, and she turns, surprised.</p><p>He removes his hand immediately and rubs at the back of his neck.  “I, um – I shouldn’t have said that.”</p><p>It isn’t an apology.  But having interviewed at his father’s firm and seen his future, she thinks maybe it’s the closest someone like him gets to one.  “It’s okay,” she says, and means it.  She shifts her weight awkwardly from one foot to the other, looking up at him.  “It’s been a weird day – just, um, a lot – and I’m feeling a little. . .”  <em>Raw</em>, she thinks, her throat constricting.  Like someone has sandpapered off the parts of her brain that deflect insults.</p><p>Nathaniel nods as if she ended the sentence, like maybe her frown is enough, and it makes her feel like she can breathe a little easier.  “Do you like camomile tea?” he asks.</p><p>Cautiously, she says, “Yeah?”</p><p>“You want some?” he asks.  “It might help you sleep.”</p><p>She feels the relieved smile bloom across her face, and nudges his arm with a blanket-covered hand.  “Are you offering me a non-smoothie beverage right now?”</p><p>He rolls his eyes and half-smiles, visibly relieved to be back on familiar ground.  “Don’t make me regret it.  Go sit.”</p><p>She obediently takes a seat on the sofa, legs crossed in front of her and blanket draped around her shoulders, while he heads for the kitchen and starts making tea.  She leans sideways against the back of the sofa, gazing vaguely in the direction of the kitchen, oddly comforted by the sound of him moving around in there, and takes a few deep breaths.  Slowly, real thoughts start to resolve through the static fog in her mind.  “Why the pool?” she asks, raising her voice a little to talk through the wall.</p><p>She’s not sure he heard her at first – he doesn’t answer for a few seconds.  Then, almost defiantly, he replies, “I play water polo.”</p><p>It’s lucky he can’t see her face, really, because her immediate reaction to that revelation is a silent <em>blegh</em>.  “Of course you do,” she replies out loud.</p><p>“Hey,” he says, leaning around the door.  “I didn’t laugh at your weird musical thing.”</p><p>“It is not <em>weird</em>,” she objects.</p><p>He hums sceptically and she smiles.</p><p>“Whatever,” she says, as he disappears back into the kitchen.  “I guess we all have our vices.  I just didn’t think anyone’s vice was <em>water polo</em>.  Also, you play water polo at night time?”</p><p>“Ha,” he says, walking in with a steaming mug in each hand.  He passes her one, and sits at the opposite end of the sofa with his own, angled a little to face her.  “No.  I swim a lot of laps at night time.  Not usually as late as tonight.  I swim and run and do weights, mostly, to keep in shape for next semester.”</p><p>“Mm,” Rebecca hums, wrapping both hands around her mug and inhaling the soothing, floral steam.  “Fun.  So why water polo?”</p><p>His eyebrows raise in surprise.  “Really?”</p><p>“What?  You seem like you could probably take your pick of sports.  I’m curious.”</p><p>She didn’t exactly <em>mean </em>it as a compliment, but it’s clear in his smile and the cocky tilt of his head that he’s taken it that way, and she rolls her eyes but lets him have it.  Melting further into the cushion in response to his preening, she takes a sip of her tea and makes a <em>go on</em> gesture with her hand.</p><p>“It’s relentless,” he says, apparently satisfied she’s expecting an answer.  “You can’t touch the bottom of the pool, so there’s no reprieve – you never stop working.  You swim at least two miles each match, all while trying to outsmart and overpower the other team.  It takes strength and stamina and precision.”</p><p>“Sounds like torture,” Rebecca observes.</p><p>“It’s called discipline.”</p><p>She scrunches her nose, and he laughs, quiet and unexpected.  “Also a little bit of torture,” he concedes.  He thinks for a moment, then adds, “It’s also pretty brutal.”</p><p>“What, like violent?  It’s a contact sport?”</p><p>He shakes his head a little.  “Technically no, but the referee can’t see what goes on under the water.  Another element of strategy.”</p><p>“Wow,” she says.  “No openings on the Slytherin Quidditch team, huh?”  He makes a dismissive <em>pfff</em> sound, and she rolls her eyes.  “Oh, you’re too cool for Harry Potter?”</p><p>“<em>No</em>,” he says.  “I’m just not surprised you’re one of those people who thinks Slytherin is an insult, that’s all.  A Gryffindor, huh?”</p><p>She really tries not to grin, but she’s too delighted by the knowledge that this tall, technically handsome, overprivileged, water polo playing future lawyer is attached to his Hogwarts house.  “I’m a Ravenclaw, actually,” she corrects, sitting up straight.</p><p>He smirks, unconvinced.  “Sure,” he says lightly.  “If you say so.”</p><p>“I <em>am</em>,” she protests, stretching her leg toward him and prodding his thigh with her toe.  He pulls away in protest, but he’s smiling.  “You don’t even know me.”</p><p>He shrugs and pulls one leg up onto the sofa to face her fully.  “I know more than you think I do.  For example, I talked to George, and I know you were offered the internship at Plimpton &amp; Plimpton and you turned it down.”</p><p>She feels her cheeks warm, feels a little like she’s been caught in a lie, although she never told him anything different.  “Yeah,” she says defiantly.  “So?”</p><p>He shrugs.  “So I think it’s likely you did that for a very Gryffindor reason.”</p><p>She rolls her eyes.  “What, Ravenclaws don’t like theatre?”</p><p>Ignoring her, he says, “Well, how did it go?  Or shouldn’t I ask?”</p><p>She laughs self-consciously.  “I seem like it was terrible, huh?”  He raises his eyebrows a little in acknowledgement but doesn’t answer.  “It wasn’t,” she says.  She closes her eyes for a second, thinking about it, trying to pick through all the tangled wires inside her head to find the feeling of absolute <em>rightness</em> she had when she was performing her song.  “I think it was the best I felt all day, actually.”</p><p>As soon as she says it, her brain offers a different image: Josh Chan smiling at her, coming by just to wish her good luck, remembering how much she loved theatre from camp.  Then the image is gone and there’s just the feeling, her chest so full of excitement it ached, her whole body vibrating with expectation.  Her muscles go tense again, and she frowns and forces herself to relax them before looking back at Nathaniel.  He’s watching her closely, forehead slightly creased.  “It went well,” she says decisively.  “I did my best, and I think my best was good.  We find out our parts tomorrow, so we’ll see, I guess.”</p><p>He nods slowly.  “That’s good,” he says.  He takes a drink of tea and his eyes meet hers over the rim of the cup, pale blue and unguarded.  He sets it down on the coffee table.  “Hey, give me your phone.”</p><p>“Um –”</p><p>He rolls his eyes, holding out his hand.  “I’ll give it back.”</p><p>She digs for it in the pocket of her pyjama pants and passes it over, scanning her thumbprint to unlock it.  “What are you –?”</p><p>“I’m giving you my number,” he says, tapping at the screen.  His own phone buzzes on the coffee table a few seconds later.  “And sending me yours.  So I can tell you if I’m gonna be home late again.”</p><p>“Oh,” she says softly.  “Thank you.”</p><p>His eyes flicker up to hers, his expression unreadable, and he passes her phone back.  “You’re welcome.”</p><p>They sit in silence for a few minutes, sipping tea and not quite looking at each other, and Rebecca starts to feel warm and sleepy.  She realises how fast her heart had been beating only as it slows and she is cocooned in quiet relief.  She cradles her empty mug against her chest and burrows into the cushion.</p><p>“You should probably go to bed,” Nathaniel says gently, his voice pleasantly low and warm.</p><p>“Mmm,” she hums, closing her eyes, pulling her blanket up to her chin.</p><p>“Hey,” he says, louder, nudging her knee.  She drags her eyes open, and he leans over and eases her mug from her hands.  “Go on.  Go to bed.  Your dancing muscles will thank me in the morning.”</p><p>She drags her eyes open and shoots him a half-hearted scowl before conceding.  “Goodnight,” she says, fighting a yawn and pushing herself to her feet.  “Thank you.”</p><p>He gives her a little smile, and she shuffles to her room with her blanket around her shoulders, collapses onto her bed and falls asleep instantly.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you to everyone who listened to me complain about this chapter far too much, and thank you for your cheerleading and for helping me untangle all the threads.  <b>WhatTheElle</b> and <b>heartbash</b> and <b>pictureofsoph1sticatedgrace</b> and <b>justwantedtodance</b> - you're the best.  *group hug*</p><p>Let me know what you think and come say hi on tumblr!  I'm <b>eyesontheskyline</b> there too.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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